


just got word

by Rehearsal_Dweller



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24881587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehearsal_Dweller/pseuds/Rehearsal_Dweller
Summary: “Davey, woul’ja come settle somethin’ for me’n Spot?” Race asks. “We need’ja brains for a sec. Only, Jacky’s not invited on account’a Spot don’t wanna look at’chr stupid face.”
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins/David Jacobs
Comments: 28
Kudos: 105





	just got word

**Author's Note:**

> I PROMISED CANON ERA SPRAVEY AND CANON ERA SPRAVEY YOU SHALL RECEIVE  
> shoutout to my other spravey fic for its time as the only fic in the relationship tag. now it has a buddy.

Jack is drunk.

That’s fine, it’s whatever, except that drunk Jack seems to have forgotten anything sober Jack knows about personal space. And he’s all over Davey. He is _all_ over Davey.

He’s been wrapped around the taller boy since approximately two seconds after the drinks started, and if Race didn’t know better he’d think Jack was just using the alcohol as an excuse to be extra tactile with Davey without having to worry about the consequences. Because, of course, in the light of day and completely sober, this level of hanging off of Davey – even allowing for the fact that Davey has quickly become Jack’s best friend and Jack is always tactile with his friends – would raise some eyebrows.

But they’re drunk – Jack is, anyway – and he’s got some leeway.

He’s using every goddamn inch of it.

(And Davey, who’s also been drinking – albeit less – and is half in love with Jack at the best of times, is letting him.)

“Ain’t fair to Davey, really,” Spot muses over his own drink. “Cause tomorrow, Jacky boy’s gonna wake up and go back to his girl and Davey’s still gonna be gone over him.”

“Jack’s still gonna be sweet on Davey, too,” says Race. “Just won’t wanna do shit about it.”

“That’s worse,” says Spot, shaking his head. “Man’s gotta decide what – who – he wants. All the worse he’s leadin’ Davey on if he really means it and still don’t mean to follow through.”

Race winces, his eyes on Davey and Jack. “I’m going to go rescue him. That’s the third time Jack’s almost kissed him, and I think if he does it again Davey’s gonna burst into fuckin’ tears.”

He stands up and crosses the room in just a few strides, his eyes locked on Davey.

“Hey, Racer!” Jack says, an easy, open grin on his face. Race frowns; he’s seen Jack drunk a fair handful of times, and something seems a little off. Maybe he hadn’t been so far off the mark in guessing Jack’s playing it up. “Davey, look, s’Race.”

“Hi, Race,” says Davey, also smiling but a little more long-sufferingly.

“Davey, woul’ja come settle somethin’ for me’n Spot?” Race asks. “We need’ja brains for a sec. Only, Jacky’s not invited on account’a Spot don’t wanna look at’chr stupid face.”

“I’d love to, but –“ Davey gestures to Jack, who’s still draped across him.

“Ain’t no fair f’I can’t come with,” says Jack.

“Yeah, no,” says Race. “You need a _break_ , Jack. Go have some water or somethin’, I promise I’ll bring Davey back to ya in one piece.”

Jack whines a little, but Davey’s got a look on his face that’s something like pained but also relieved. Race helps him peel Jack’s arms away from him, shoving the older boy toward a game of cards being played not too far off.

“So what do you two need settled?” Davey asks as he and Race walk away.

“Just whether Jacky’s worth your trouble,” Race says softly. “Ain’t gotta bet on or anything, we’s just been watchin’ the two’a you, an’ you looked like you could use a break from’im.”

“Thanks,” says Davey, and it’s so quiet and pained that it just about breaks Race’s heart.

“You don’t have to put up with him, you know,” says Race. He tugs Davey across the room, back to Spot, by the hand. “Could just tell’im to fuck off when he gets like that, s’what the rest’a us do.”

Davey goes faintly pink. “I don’t mind it.”

“Don’cha, though?” Spot says. He’s leaning back in his chair, the front legs kicked off the ground. “Ain’t kind of him to flirt like that if he ain’t gonna follow through. N’you deserve better’n that, too.”

“Race flirts with people all the time,” Davey points out halfheartedly. “He planning on _following through_ with that?”

Race wrinkles his nose. “That ain’t the same and you know it, Davey. Jacky’s playin’ with your heart, and he knows it. An’ we can see it’s wearin’ on ya.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

“You can do better,” Spot scoffs. “Better than Jack Kelly and better than somebody who plays with you ‘cause he’s too chicken to commit.”

“He’s got Kath,” says David, “he’s just –“

“Trying to have you, too,” Race cuts in. “Because he knows you’s sweet on him, sugar, and he’d rather have as much’a both’a you as he can than choose.”

“’Cause Kelly’s a bitch,” says Spot, gesturing with the drink in his hand for emphasis.

“’Cause Jack’s a bitch,” Race agrees.

That wins a startled laugh from Davey.

“Now that’s a nice sound,” says Race. He softens, squeezing Davey’s hand before finally releasing it. “Look, Daves, we ain’t tellin’ you to give up Jack all together –“

“I am,” Spot cuts in. “If he’s gonna treat you like that, he ain’t worth your time.”

“Alright, _I’m_ not tellin’ you to drop Jack,” Race says, rolling his eyes. “He’s your best friend, and he’s – he’s fuckin’ intoxicating, I know. It’s hard not to get caught up on him.”

“Speakin’ from experience, Racer?” Spot teases.

“We all make mistakes,” Race says easily, shrugging. He meets Davey’s eye, and sees slightly startled sympathy in his expression. “Hey, I got better. Got _this_ dumbass now.” He kicks Spot’s chair, nearly making the other boy fall flat on his back. “Point is, it ain’t good for you to let him be all over you like that; you’s just gonna hurt more in the mornin’ when he’s sober and he goes back to Kathy.”

Davey sighs, leaning heavily against the table next to Spot. “Yeah, I know. It’s not the first time this has happened. But I – it fuckin’ hurts, you know? And at least when he’s –“ Davey’s gaze drifts back over to Jack, across the room. “I can let myself pretend things could be different for a little while.”

“Ain’t healthy, Mouth,” says Spot.

“Yeah,” says Davey, “I know.”

“Tell ya what, sugar,” Race says, “when the union gets together like this –“ he waves vaguely around at the assembled newsies, because this _had_ started as a union event and quickly devolved into something of a party – “you stick to me and Spotty, here. We’s much better company than Jack is, anyway.”

Davey raises an eyebrow. “I doubt you’d want me around –“

“Don’t be _stupid_ , David,” Spot interrupts. “It don’t look good on you.”

“What Spot means is we’re glad to have you, ‘specially if you’d be puttin’ yourself through Jack otherwise,” Race says a little more diplomatically. “Assumin’ you can stand Spot once he’s gotten a few drinks in ‘im.”

“Is that – is that _not_ what I’m looking at right now?” Davey asks, his tone hesitant.

“Oh, it is,” says Race. “He’s just bitchy when he’s drunk. You might’a noticed.”

“He’s not being substantially worse than when he’s sober, if I’m honest,” Davey says, the smallest of smiles creeping onto his face. “Since the last time Jack and I had to go to Brooklyn to meet him for business, he said we weren’t allowed to talk to him ‘until Jack stopped lookin’ so damn ugly.’ I had to make Jack wait by the bridge.”

Race laughs. “Yeah, okay.”

“That reminds me,” says Spot, letting the front legs of his chair hit the ground with a _thunk_ , “next time you wanna talk to me, Jacobs –“

“You ever gonna just call me Davey, or –“

“ _Mouth_ ,” Spot says firmly. “Next time you wanna talk to me or Manhattan needs somethin’, come _alone_. I cannot be assed to deal with Jack goddamn Kelly when you or Racer can handle shit alone.”

“Consider it done,” says Davey, laughing.

“Call it a break from Jack,” Race says, his voice light and teasing. “Hell, take _me_ with instead and the three’a us can make a day of it.”

“Nothing would get done,” Davey replies. He shoves Race playfully. “You two would just distract each other all day –“

“And would that be so bad?” says Race, elbowing him back. “You might actually have fun.”

“Spot Conlon? Fun?” Davey says, and now he’s _definitely_ playing along. “Perish the thought.”

\--

Davey and Race do make it to Brooklyn on the same day not too long after – but it’s not a pleasure visit.

Davey is selling the morning edition, half a block down from Jack and across the street from Les. A little girl with dark hair arranged in two neat braids under a grey plaid newsboy cap runs up to Davey – she looks vaguely familiar but not especially so. She’s definitely not a Manhattan newsie.

“You’s Davey Jacobs, right?” she says, squinting up at him with her hands on her hips. “The Walkin’ Mouth?”

Davey wrinkles his nose at the nickname but nods. “I am. Who are you?”

“I’m Soot, I’m from Brooklyn,” the girl says. “Spot Conlon sent me for you.”

“Is something wrong?” Davey asks, glancing up the street toward Jack. “Jack might be better –“

“Spot said _you_ ,” Soot replies, standing her ground. She’s small, but she’s definitely got the same air of _do not mess with me_ rolling off of her that Spot always does, although to a lesser degree. “ _Davey_. Racetrack’s sick.”

_Racetrack’s sick_. “Alright,” says Davey. “Let me talk to Jack, and then I’ll come back with you.”

He flags Jack down, walking toward him with Soot in tow.

“What’s goin’ on, Davey? Who’s your shadow?” Jack asks.

“Soot, from Brooklyn,” Davey introduces, waving across her. “She brought a message – Spot wants me across the bridge. Can you look out for Les and get him home?”

“Sure, if you want,” says Jack. “Unless want me to come with?”

“Spot don’t want you there,” Soot says, her arms crossed. “He asked for Davey.”

“Spot asked for me,” echoes Davey, shrugging. “Somethin’s up with Racer, apparently.”

“S’wrong with Race that he doesn’t want me there?” says Jack, looking offended.

“Spot just prefers dealing with me to dealing with you,” Davey replies soothingly. “Even – maybe especially – when it’s got to do with one of our boys. Don’t worry about it, alright? Look out for Les.”

“I always look out for Les.”

“Thanks, Jacky.”

Davey sets off toward Brooklyn. His legs are about twice as long as Soot’s, so she struggles to keep to the pace he’s setting.

“Would it be easier if I carried you?” Davey offers. “At least partway? I don’t want to leave you behind, but if Race is sick I’d like to move quickly.”

“I don’t wanna be any trouble,” Soot says.

“You’re smaller than my brother, and I carry him home at night all the time,” says Davey. Ultimately that’s all it takes, and he walks the rest of the way to the Brooklyn newsie lodgings with a seven-year-old girl on his back.

She wriggles out of his arms as they approach the building and scurries ahead. She darts into the building ahead of him, reappearing a moment later with another girl, this one a little closer to Davey’s age. He’s met this girl before – she’s Spot’s second, Hotshot.

“Heya, Mouth,” she says, her hands tucked into her pockets.

“Hotshot.”

“Racer’s real out of it,” Hotshot says. “Spot’s frettin’ somethin’ fierce. You better come up quick.”

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

“Yeah, you’s here.”

Hotshot leads Davey into the building and up to the highest level of dorm rooms, where sure enough they find Race sprawled in a bed – looking pale and probably feverish – while Spot hovers near the foot of it.

“I’ll leave you to manage him,” Hotshot says quietly. “I need a goddamn break.”

Davey snorts. “Yeah, I got it.”

Spot doesn’t look up until Davey sits down next to Race and puts a hand on his forehead. Close up, Race looks even worse.

“You got here fast,” Spot says.

“I carried Soot so we could move a little faster,” says Davey. “What _happened_? He seemed fine at distribution.”

“Then he’s damn good at faking it, because he was a mess soon’s he crossed the bridge,” Spot replies.

Davey runs his fingers through Race’s hair. “Idiot.”

“God, you can say that again,” says Spot.

“Why me?” asks Davey. The question is meant for Spot, although Davey is still looking down at Race. “Soot was very particular about Jack not coming.”

“I told’ja, Mouth,” Spot says. “I’d rather deal with you a hundred times over. An’ anyway, I figure Race’d like wakin’ up to your pretty face, over Jack’s.”

Davey looks up at Spot sharply.

Spot shrugs. He puts a hand on Race’s ankle, looking away from Davey.

“Daves?” Race mumbles, drawing both of their attention. He’s smiling a little dazedly up at Davey. “Did’ja come all this way just for me? You didn’t need to, I’m fine.”

“Oh yeah, sweetness, you’re _fine_ ,” Spot says, dripping with sarcasm. “Passed out in my goddamn arms, but you’re fine.”

“Race,” Davey says, letting his concern and exasperation bleed into his voice. “Why didn’t you tell us you weren’t feeling well? Why didn’t you tell _me_?”

“I’m fine,” Race repeats stubbornly. “I’d’a told you if I wasn’t feelin’ good, sugar.”

“No you wouldn’t!” says Davey. “Because here we are, in Brooklyn, with you feverish after swooning like a novel heroine –“

“What?”

“Like a girl in a story, Racer,” Spot says, laughing. “Can’t say he’s wrong. Woul’ja just let us take care’a you? _Please_?”

And, remarkably, that’s enough.

“I thought it was just another headache, y’know?” Race says quietly. “I didn’t mean to hide anything.”

“Oh, Race,” Davey says softly, running his fingers through Race’s hair again. Then he flicks the side of his head – not hard, just enough to get his point across. “You’re not supposed to leave Manhattan when you’ve got one of your headaches, either, dumbass.”

“Ow,” Race whines.

“You’re not?” says Spot. He looks at Davey. “He’s not? The little shit comes over here with headaches all the time!”

“Race.”

“Look, Davey, I can take care’a myself –“

“Clearly you can’t,” Spot cuts in. “God, sweetness. Why are you _like_ this?”

Race doesn’t answer, just gives a little indignant sound that turns into a pained groan partway through.

“You want some water, Race?” Spot asks, much gentler.

Race nods. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” says Spot. He stands up. “I’m gonna go hunt down Hotshot. And take a breather from your fuckin’ stupidity.”

“Aw, sweets, you always say the nicest things to me,” Race says sarcastically.

Davey watches Spot leave, then twists his fingers through Race’s curls again. “Once you’ve had some water, go ahead back to sleep. If you’re feeling up to it later, I’d like to get you back to Manhattan tonight.”

“We can go now –“

“Race,” Davey says. “Racer, love. Cut it out.”

Race is asleep again by the time Spot gets back, a glass of water in his hand. He sets it down on a small table.

“He’s so goddamn dumb sometimes,” Spot says fondly.

“Yeah, but he’s ours,” says Davey. His cheeks go slightly pink. “Though not quite in the same way, I suppose.”

Spot hums. “He could be; he likes you.”

“But you –“

“I like you, too,” Spot says.

“Oh.”

“No pressure, or anything,” says Spot. “Just a thought.”

“It’s not really what’s done,” says Davey.

“We’s already queer, Davey,” Spot says softly. “That ain’t what’s done either. What’s one more thing? What’s one more _person_ , especially if it’s you?”

Davey frowns, looking down at Race’s sleeping face. “I don’t know if now’s the time, Spot.”

“Just think about it, sugar,” Spot says. He moves around the bed to sit down on Race’s other side.

When Race wakes up again, later, he’s not quite so hot to the touch, and can keep his feet under him when he stands, so Davey and Spot deem him okay to walk back to Manhattan under heavy supervision.

Which is to say, with Davey supporting him on one side, and Spot on the other. Spot walks with them all the way to the Manhattan newsie lodging house, and doesn’t say a word about it. Even though walking all the way there also means walking all the way back.

They get Race settled and walk back to the door together. They pause just long enough to make sure Race’s rent for the night is covered, then linger outside for a moment.

“Thanks for helping walk him back,” Davey says. “He’s deceptively heavy, I don’t know if we’d’a made it all the way without you.”

Spot hums. “Wasn’t anything, Daves. Don’t worry about it.”

“Come over for dinner,” Davey blurts. “You’ve already come all this way.”

“Can’t afford how late I’d get back to Brooklyn,” Spot says. “One’a these days, though, huh?”

“I’ll hold you to that, sweets,” says Davey, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically bold.

Spot grins.

\--

“We’s just waitin’ on Brooklyn,” Jack says, arms crossed. He glances at Race before shifting his gaze back across the crowd. “Anybody heard from Brooklyn?”

As if on cue, Hotshot comes tearing down the aisle of the theatre toward the stage. She looks stressed and scared – both oddly out of place on her face, since all Davey has ever seen there is cool confidence – and like she’s been in a fight. She’s splattered in blood Davey is almost certain isn’t hers.

“Mouth!” she shouts as she runs, “Racer! You gotta come quick!”

“Hotshot,” Race calls, dropping to his knees at the edge of the stage. He lowers his voice. “Niamh, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Spot,” Hotshot answers, breathless. “There was a fight, he’s hurt bad, Racer. You gotta help him.”

Davey kneels next to Race. “Take us to him.”

Jack squawks a protest as Race and Davey leave, but the look Davey throws over his shoulder at him makes him go still and silent.

“He’s not alone, right?” Davey asks Hotshot as they walk, taking care to shorten his stride so as not to outpace her. Hotshot is _short,_ even shorter than Spot. It doesn’t make her any less intimidating.

“Ain’t my first day on the job, Mouth,” Hotshot spits.

“Davey knows you know what’cha doin’, Nee,” Race says, his voice low and shockingly steady. “Just wants to make sure Spot’s okay.”

“He’s not okay,” says Hotshot. “That’s the fuckin’ problem.”

“Hotshot,” Race says sharply.

“Sorry, Mouth,” Hotshot says. “I’m just – usually Spot’s the one scrapin’ the rest’a us off the pavement, y’know? I ain’t seen’im this beat up in a long time.”

“What happened?” asks Davey. He’s trying not to look at her hands, which are smeared with blood that definitely came from another person.

“Some drunk picked a fight with a kid – one’a yours, actually, but I dunno his name. Spot stepped in ‘cause your boy was gettin’ fuckin’ soaked but – he pulled a knife,” Hotshot says, all in one breath. “Guy left’im for fuckin’ dead.”

“Shit,” says Davey, stepping his pace up a little.

“We got the bleedin’ under control, but he needs takin’ someplace safe and lookin’ after.”

“Why come for us?” Race asks. “Why not take him –“

“Two reasons,” says Hotshot. “Neither me or your boy are big enough to move Spot, and we’re both in rough shape anyway. Two: he asked for you. Both’a you.”

She rounds a corner, bringing the three of them into an alley where sure enough – there’s Spot, looking beat to hell and covered in blood, with a slightly panicky looking Romeo pressing what looks like his vest onto Spot’s side where, presumably, his injury is.

“My family’s place isn’t too far,” Davey hears himself say. “And my mother’s good with – with injuries. We can take him there.”

“Okay,” says Race. He’s nodding furiously. “Okay.” Race looks from Hotshot to Romeo and back. “You two go back to the theatre, okay? Tell them what’s goin’ on and to go on without us. Niamh, we’ll look after Spot ‘till he’s back on his feet; you got Brooklyn?”

“A’course I got Brooklyn,” Hotshot says. “Kinda second do you take me for, Race?”

Race holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright.”

Hotshot and Romeo leave, and Race falls to his knees next to Spot, who’s aware enough that Romeo left him holding the fabric to his wound himself.

“Hey, sweetness,” Spot says, just a little dazed.

“Gave us a scare, there, sweets,” Race replies. He touches his forehead to Spot’s, and it’s pure tenderness – an odd break from their norm, which usually leans more toward teasing and roughhousing. It’s the only outward sign Race is giving of how afraid he is for his –

(What do Race and Spot even call each other? Are they lovers? Sweethearts? Something else, less defined but still solidly _there_?)

Spot.

“Take more’n some asshole with a knife to take me down. Just grazed me, really,” Spot says. He looks up at Davey. “Glad’ja came, sugar.”

“I’d say anytime, but I don’t want to give you any ideas,” Davey says drily. “Race, can you lift him?”

“I can walk.”

“Bullshit,” Davey and Race say in near-unison.

“I got’im, Daves, just lead the way,” Race says. He slips an arm around Spot’s back, threading the other under his legs, and carefully gets to his feet with surprising ease. An advantage to Spot being on the small side, Davey supposes.

They give Davey’s mother a bit of a fright, showing up with their bruised and bloody friend, but it isn’t the first time it’s happened and Davey knows, in a slightly resigned way, that it won’t be the last. For Esther’s part, she takes it in stride, and helps him and Race get Spot’s wounds cleaned and bandaged.

“Have you considered convincing your friends to get into less trouble?” Esther asks her son in a low voice.

Davey laughs. “I try every day of my life, Mama. They haven’t listened to me yet.”

She pats his shoulder. “I worry about them, you know. And you, but at least you have the good sense not to get involved most of the time.”

“I try.”

“He’s welcome to stay the night.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

Spot’s in Davey’s bed, in the small bedroom he shares with his siblings, so when Esther goes back into the other room the three boys are left completely alone.

Spot is murmuring soft reassurances to Race, who’s got a tight grip on his hand. “I’m al _right_ , Racer, sweetness. Come on, see, I’m fine.”

“Covered in bruises and slashed to ribbons, but yeah, you’re fine,” says Race. “Fuck, Spot, I’ll never get used to seeing you like this. I never want to.”

“Hazard of the job, love,” Spot says. He looks over at Davey, who’s hanging back a little, feeling just a bit like he’s intruding on something. “C’mere, sugar, sit down. Can you get some sense into our boy?”

( _Our boy.)_

Davey does sit, but he shakes his head. He puts one hand gently on Spot’s knee, and the other on Race’s shoulder. “He’s the one talking sense, Spot, not you.”

“See, sweets?” Race says, leaning back on Davey with a long-suffering sigh. “Davey _agrees_ with me.”

“Aw, Davey, sugar, I didn’t know you cared,” Spot says, his voice unfairly teasing for the fact that he’s currently bruised and bloody and in Davey’s bed instead of at the union meeting where he’s supposed to be.

“Didn’t you?” says Davey. He takes a small risk, because why the hell not, right? “I think you know exactly how much I care about the two of you.”

Spot hums. “Maybe I do.”

“You asked for both of us,” Davey says.

“Course I did,” says Spot. “Needed both of you.”

Race, still laying back against Davey, tips his head back to look at Davey’s face. “We usually do.”

“Is that so?” Davey asks. He lets his cheek rest against Race’s forehead, sighing. “What am I going to do with the two of you?”

“I have some ideas,” says Spot.

Race swats at him. “Not till you’re fixed up.”

Davey laughs. “Yeah, not till you’re fixed up.”

“Really?” Race says, sitting up fully and twisting to look Davey in the eye. “You know what his _ideas_ are, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion,” says Davey. “The kind of thing we _won’t_ be doing in my parents’ house, thank you very much.”

Race grins. “Not even one little kiss? Just me, Spot doesn’t deserve it, on account of scaring the life outta us.”

“Spot absolutely deserves it, because Spot’s the one who almost got killed today!” Spot protests.

“That would be dangerous, Race,” Davey says in a low voice, his gaze drifting to the door.

“Not as long as we’re smart, sugar, and you and I are very smart,” says Race, leaning in a little.

Davey hums. “I suppose one kiss won’t hurt –“ and Race starts leaning in, but Davey dives around him, trying not to jostle Spot too much, and pecks Spot on the cheek instead.

He sits back up, sure his face is bright, bright red, and Spot grins at him. Race throws his head back and laughs.

“Oh, man,” says Spot. “Did we make a good choice with you.”


End file.
